


as the sun dies

by fannyatrollop



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: And Katya is a Romanov who could not have possibly existed in real life, Everyone's related by marriage, F/F, Set in Versaille's last hurrah before the Revolution so tread cautiously, The libelles are just a little bit right, Trixie is Marie Antoinette, Versailles AU, Violet is her sister in law, being a princess is hard, french royal law hated women, lots of royal baby anxiety, playing fast and loose with history, reference to a creepy age gap marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannyatrollop/pseuds/fannyatrollop
Summary: In 1770, a sheltered princess arrived at Versailles with the best intentions. This is her story.





	1. royal parcels

**Author's Note:**

> i have too many ideas and not enough impulse control to delay the gratification of posting.
> 
> i've spent a lot of time stressing about this one because i really, really, really love a royalty au. a quick look at my current works page will tell you as much. and in this case, i wanted to try and mess around with history for the sake of fanfiction. i've spent a lot of time reading royal histories as a hobby and... guys, i cracked open a book or two for this one. still, there's no way i could actually write a historically accurate piece for drag race fanfiction, a lot of basic necromancy and hope that y'all will suspend your disbelief has come into the conception of this fic, so if anyone _other_ than me is the type to nitpick... i know and i am sorry.
> 
> as for names, katya's the only one who mostly keeps her name intact with a significant change in surname. trixie has been switched in for george iii of england's youngest sister, caroline matilda, who irl was sent to be queen of denmark and... didn't do too well over there either. there's a good reason for her having been named after her grandmum, so i worked with that. how trixie going to france makes any damn sense in this fic is... a bit of a stretch, but for some reason i preferred doing this to making her an austrian archduchess. i am a damned fool. 
> 
> also i do that thing history books sometimes do where i just call people by their titles. to make it a little less crazy confusing, i stick to more recognizable names when i'm in a particular character's pov re: the queens. i'm not going to worry about the actual historical characters doing backflips in their graves while i'm still alive.
> 
> and as to the inevitable question of what might happen to the poor girl i stick in the role of marie antoinette at the end of the fic... the answer is yes. 
> 
> i await your torches and pitchforks.
> 
> very quick rundown of ages c. 1771 (give or take a year):
> 
> trixie - 19  
> katya - 24  
> violet - 18

Princess Caroline Beatrice of Great Britain, aged eighteen, has barely recovered from seasickness when she enters her new home. She’s never liked admitting to weakness, so rather than explaining her nausea as a symptom of nerves, she prefers to think she’s still carrying the effects of that horrible voyage inside of her. If she has it her way, she will never again set foot on a ship, not even if her life depends on it.

She knows that when a princess leaves her home country, she's unlikely to return unless she is an unfit wife. When she was informed of her upcoming nuptials, she had promised herself to succeed on that front come hell or high water. Her marriage will be a _success_ , even if it kills her. If she ever does end up on a boat home, she will be a _failure_ , and if it’s like that she might as well leap off and let the sea have her. She doubts she'd be sent to the stocks for returning home a spurned woman, but she doesn't want that to be the outcome of her life. Something about her marriage feels like a grand, cosmic test, and it's in her nature to want to do well. 

Trixie has no mind for politics. She can ride a horse. She can grow her own flowers, and keep a small garden alive tolerably well. She is a gifted musician, which is something she takes immense pride in. From the day she was born, her entire world has been confined to the house she was raised in, and the occasional sojourn to another royal residence for holidays. She's incredibly green, but even so she is aware that hers is an unusual match. Her marriage is meant to crown the end to a long war with France—wedding bells to ring in a deeper friendship between the two nations. She would have expected to be shipped off to one of the German states instead, somewhere nice and Protestant, where her bridegroom might turn out to be a close relative. Her sisters had been established through alliances where at least one of these things was true.

For Trixie, marriage has simply been one of the three possible outcomes for her future, the other two being a tragic, early death, or spinsterhood. It doesn't  _bother_ her to be marrying the Dauphin of France, and though it surprises her, there's no point in questioning the situation. When a princess is told she is to be married, she seldom has room to object. She still feels rather queasy about the whole thing, but she's tried very hard to quell that feeling with positive affirmations.  

_One day, I will be the Queen of France. There are worse fates, and it was never my choice where I wound up in life._

This cheerful mantra led her through her seasickness, through her dressing and undressing only moments after stepping foot on dry land, through the awkwardness of meeting her husband for the first time, not to mention her meeting with the King, and the first meal she shared with her new family. It has been with her as she feels the weight of history settling on her shoulders, the responsibility of finding her place in a new court when she scarcely has previous experience at her native court, and her knowledge that she’s not quite ready. 

Admittedly, Trixie is a touch too sensitive, though she has learned to conceal it. Perhaps her mind has perceived more hostility in the people she has encountered thus far than she should have. Much of her energy has been expended in the service of performing as best as she can, while her lingering seasickness and compulsion to worry conspires against her. What she does know is that judging from their brief encounter, the Dauphin was not at all charmed by her. He could hardly meet her eye, even as he kissed her hand.

He’ll have to put up with her, nonetheless.

She breathes deeply, through her nose for greater discretion, as soon as she can make out the looming splendor of Versailles. She remembers that she was born to leave home and never return, that her most beloved sister bore it well enough when it was her time, and that another young woman was plucked from her home no less than seven years ago, to be her brother’s queen. Princess Caroline Beatrice, affectionately known as Trixie, has ceased to be; the girl in the carriage, desperately denying her fears, is the Dauphine of France. She should start referring to herself as such in her mind, and cast aside her childhood nickname. She won’t, but she will tell herself she ought to.

There is plenty of light, and nothing particularly foreboding about Versailles by design. Still, she feels a deep chill as she passes through its doors for the first time.

She toys with the ring on her finger, a gift from her mother. She's not meant to have it anymore, had to hide it behind her teeth as she was stripped and outfitted with the trappings of a French princess, but she's trying to derive as much comfort as possible from her little keepsake. Inscribed on the inside of the ring are words she believes were intended as a charm, one which she hopes will work: _Bring me happiness_.

***

Caroline Beatrice was born on August 23, 1751, approximately five months after the death of her father.

Whatever his faults as a person, and he was definitely seen almost exclusively through that lens by his own royal parents, Frederick, Prince of Wales was a caring, attentive father. He brought a liveliness to his household that contrasted starkly with the confinement in which the princess was brought up. As unfortunate as it was that she never knew him, for they would have likely gotten along rather well, it’s a small mercy that she was not able to compare the relatively bleak world she grew to know with brighter times.

The most crucial result of her isolated childhood was that when it came time for her to marry, her experience of life at court was minimal. Versailles, with all its formalities, would prove overwhelming for a sheltered girl who saw more of her native land on her way out of it than she had in all her life. The princess’ eldest brother, known to history as George III, had misgivings about the French marriage. He thought his sister unprepared for the challenge, yet it proceeded with his approval. Had he placed more faith in his gut feeling, things may have turned out differently.

George, though, had made a very aggressive push to broker a peace for a war that was bringing victory after victory to his country, engaging in political maneuvers that he found distasteful to put an end to a conflict that he saw as little more than a bloody drain on his coffers. How would it look if he made a fuss about garnishing that peace with a marriage, when both nations had suitable candidates on hand? His sister was of age, it was not unreasonable to assume she ought to marry; though she could be settled better elsewhere, with talks of marriage already underway and a hard-won end to a wasteful conflict it did not seem wise to imply that there were better potential matches for her.

He could not, at the time, have foreseen what would come of this marriage. No one could.

As it was, Caroline Beatrice was born in good health on a late summer’s day. She was named in honour of her grandmother, and would be said to resemble her physically later in life. It is probable that her resemblance to Queen Caroline helped to convince Louis XV of her suitability as a marriage candidate for his grandson: in her day, Queen Caroline was said to have the finest bosom in Europe, and Louis XV was a bosom enthusiast. The young princess' portrait, coupled with a careful choice of words from an interested party, would have been enough to sway him...

***

In her defense, Trixie can say that the Dauphin was no more eager to fulfill his duties as a husband on their wedding night than she was. Sure, _she_ was too busy agonizing over her performance at the official wedding ceremony to be of any assistance, but it’s not entirely her fault that nothing happened.

Her wedding gown had been an opulent confection made with cloth of silver, and covered in diamonds. The panniers on the hips added a significant amount of horizontal width to her silhouette, enough that she imagined she could comfortably seat a child on each hip with plenty of room to spare. She had very little experience with moving about in this sort of gown, and she could not easily overcome the fact that she’d noticeably stumbled the second she entered the cathedral. She wishes there was a way to go back and prevent that display from being the first impression some members of her court would surely have of her.

Even if she’d moved like an angel floating on a cloud, it would not make up for the fact that the bodice had been made far too small. There was no helping this by the time it was discovered, and she had to make do with a dress that gave the world a cheeky peek at her undergarments in the back.

Trixie and her husband were a match made in heaven on the dance floor. Trixie was technically competent in the art of dance, but contending with a gown that somehow managed to swallow her whole even as it was unable to fasten onto her body fully, she gave off the appearance of a badly conducted marionette. The Dauphin fared no better, and the young couple provided the court with an unintentionally comic first dance. Their bumbling performance in their first dance as man and wife likely acted as foreshadowing to their handling of the marriage bed.

A Dauphine has only one way to fully cement her position, and that is by providing her husband with an heir. If she can produce two, all the better. By the morning after Trixie’s wedding, her ability to achieve this _simple_ task is cast into doubt. Shortly after her marriage, her brother’s queen gives birth to his seventh child. She dutifully writes a letter to congratulate him, all the while telling herself that she has no reason to be angry about it. If she tells herself that she will soon receive a similar letter, perhaps the universe will listen and make it so.

Despite her hopes, the situation remains dire for so long that a marriage for the Dauphin’s younger brother, the Comte de Provence, becomes paramount. In accordance to a long tradition of intermarriage between the royal families of France and Savoy, a Savoyard princess is sent for to be the new Comtesse de Provence. And so, less than a year from the time of her own marriage, Trixie gains some competition in the form of a sister in law.

***

Every day, Trixie must suffer the ritual of getting dressed in front of the whole world. It’s one of many daily tasks the Dauphine of France must undertake with an audience. She doubts she’ll ever get used to it.

Without a soul to confide in at court, she writes the contents of her mind to one of her sisters. She vents to Louisa, settled in Denmark, about the nonsense she dealt with every day of her life, and how she would not be surprised if it was suddenly decreed that she was not permitted to take a shit without being gawked at. Why, it would become the highest of privileges to wipe her ass for her after!

“I am certain,” she writes. “That there is scarcely a lady in this palace that has not had the privilege of seeing me in my most natural state. I sincerely hope it pleases them.”

The handing over of the chemise is a jealously guarded privilege that belongs to the highest ranking lady at the Dauphine’s dressing ceremony. This lady is apparently not obligated to arrive in time so that she may be present from the start of the ceremony onwards. What sometimes happens, then, is that as the social makeup of the room changes, the ceremony must adapt. If a parade of ladies, each grander than the one before, choose to drag their feet on the way to Trixie’s rooms, she must let it be passed about until the correct lady is able to hand it to her. Even if she’s caught with her arms outstretched, mere seconds from receiving her chemise. It’s utterly ridiculous.

Initially, she gives the Comtesse the benefit of the doubt. She’s freshly arrived, so perhaps she wouldn’t know when it was time to assemble for her dressing. It may have also been news to her that, with them being so closely related, she could easily outrank every lady present upon arrival. Trixie knows how difficult it is to adapt, so she is willing to forgive.

Until she gets a look at her face.

The Comtesse is beautiful, with small, delicate features. Her nose is pointed down a little, but that does little to detract from the pleasing whole of her face. She’s a dark beauty, striking enough that Trixie almost gasps. As comely as she is, the way the Comtesse smirks and locks eyes with Trixie sends an unpleasant chill down her spine. She knows full well that Trixie is standing there, completely exposed, shivering in front of all the ladies present and God. Yet she removes her gloves at an agonizingly slow pace.

By the time she deigns to hand Trixie her chemise, the Comtesse has already soured her day. Later, Trixie’s blood boils when she hears about her going around claiming the gloves were just too tight for quick removal.

_A likely story!_

Because Trixie habitually prefers to resolve conflict by stewing in her bitter juices for time immemorial, she does nothing in retaliation. The worst part is that she had hoped they’d be friends. 

***

Maria Viola Giuseppina of Savoy, rechristened Marie Violette upon becoming Comtesse de Provence, is quick and bright, with an unreasonable level of self-assurance. As a princess from a relatively minor house, shuffled off to marry the current spare to the French throne, there is no reason for her to act so grand. Despite the fact that she hadn’t been raised to be this way, Violette moves through the world as if seas ought to part for her.

Her mother, the quintessence of Spanish piety, always disapproved. She was taught to expect that her future would be dictated to her, and she ought to submit with grace, but Violette is not submissive by nature. And she never cared to cultivate that trait. There’s always been a hunger in her, a hunger for more than what she has. She wants to be exalted among women. Hell, even men.

At the rate things are going, whatever her fate had originally prescribed for her, she just might become Queen of France.

Violette has no personal quarrel with the Dauphine. They’ve hardly spoken, after all. It didn’t take long, though, for her to realize that she’s so lacking, the King had to send for reinforcements. She may have wound up here in time, but in a way she owes her current position to the Dauphine, and if she is not able to prove herself competent she may even owe her a crown.

Nobody has to know that her husband, being so grotesquely obese that he can barely walk unaided, is no more helpful in bringing about this glorious destiny than the hapless Dauphin. Only the promise of future greatness bids her to attempt her wifely duties, and all in vain.

Though no more capable, her husband still sees fit to needle his brother with constant, inaccurate boasts about the amount of activity their marriage bed sees over the course of a single day. So, Violette thought it might be fun to lay a small prank of her own on the Dauphine. She has to admit the look of impotent rage on the other girl’s face as she used the court’s own etiquette to tease her made her smile.

An unexpected gift arrives in the wake of her little stunt, to put a damper on her fun. The King’s sister in law, a former grand duchess of Russia now known to the French court as _Madame_ , has presented her with a gorgeously embroidered pair of gloves.

There’s a note accompanying them, written in neat cursive: “I hope you find these more comfortable.”

Though a widow, Madame has been permitted to maintain the rank she held while her husband lived. As she remains closer in proximity to the current king, she outranks Violette. It may be true that the Dauphine also outranks her, but she does not see any wisdom in snubbing Madame. She can’t refuse her gift, as much as it irritates her to receive it.

***

Trixie wakes up with dread at the thought of seeing her sister-in-law so early in the day again. In the aftershock of the small slight she suffered, she has written a plaintive letter to Louisa, and a more witty letter to another one of her sisters, Augusta, to help ease her growing loneliness. The isolation of being a known disappointment to her new family is a tough patch of darkness to escape, though, even with all the solace she can find in writing to her sisters. She sees no need to trouble George, because she can’t imagine him providing her with the kind of sympathy she craves.

When it’s time to attend her dressing, Trixie senses a change in the room. The cause of it is soon attributed to a relation she has yet to see at the ceremony making her first appearance.

Madame had been pointed out to her at her wedding as her husband’s favourite aunt, the King's one and only sister in law, and the second lady at court after herself. Trixie’s arrival, she was told, had demoted Madame from being the first lady at court, a rank she had held after the Dauphin’s mother had passed away. Already mortified by her inability to excel instantly at being Dauphine, Trixie had almost been compelled to apologize to her for this. Even so, in all their brief meetings, Trixie has not encountered even the smallest hint of hostility from Madame.

When they have the time to converse, it will be Madame who apologizes to her about not having attended to her sooner. She had been occupied in supporting her youngest step daughter as she made the choice to take the veil, and had retreated to another married step-daughter’s country home for a brief spell before returning to receive the Comtesse. By then, Trixie feels like there is nothing this woman needs to do to beg her forgiveness.

The Comtesse drags her feet on her way to her rooms once again, but it doesn’t matter. As long as Madame is there, the Comtesse’s arrival will not disturb the ceremony.

Madame smiles tenderly, and Trixie thinks she catches her winking as she hands over her chemise. Trixie feels like she is in the presence of an angel.

 


	2. the two madames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think now’s a good time to give a rough breakdown of how everyone’s related, and historical details. i may spend my free time eating this stuff up, but that’s my special interest. i’m not sure how much most people care about the history but i tend to fret about it, so this will be a horrifying look into my mind.
> 
> katya was married off to louis xv’s fictional younger brother. there’s actually a very convoluted way in which i justified this, and technically the historical man katya married was the actual louis xv... but never mind that i could be here longer talking about this by all means shoot me a message i could go on for years. this marriage (katya’s i mean) happened when katya was 15, and the groom was... old. this is why she’s really young despite technically being a great aunt to trixie’s husband. 
> 
> and i gota stress that katya would not have existed in real life. her parents, for our purposes in this fic, are peter iii and catherine the great (wow)... in real life they would not have conceived her in time for her to exist. like at all. but fuck it, she’s here, and she was sent to france to marry an old widower because her great aunt thought it would be neat to have a relative in france... and louis xv went along with it.
> 
> the french royal succession was a mess since the time of louis xiv, because heirs kept dying before their time. louis xv himself inherited the throne from his great-grandfather at the age of 5 because of this... in this story he would have been a little older but i’m honestly nerding out here, which is why i’ve mentioned it. but anyway, louis-auguste (who i generally refer to as the dauphin) only ended up as close to the throne as he did because both his older brother and his father didn’t survive grandpa louis xv’s reign. 
> 
> so uh the most relevant bits of information to know from all of this is that katya is... trixie’s husband’s grandfather’s younger brother’s widow. so she’s like a great-step-aunt-in-law to trixie herself. royalty was not fucked up back in the day... oh, at all!
> 
> she’s pretty much related to violet the same way. louis-auguste had two younger brothers, and violet married the middle one. the princess who married this charming man in real life was eventually joined by her own sister, who married the third brother, in france. i’m keeping this fact.
> 
> the formal title for the younger brother of the king in france was monsieur. his wife, in turn, was referred to as madame. katya still has the title because... well, monsieur might be dead but she’s still kicking, and the king hasn’t changed. the way this works has been a source of stress for me because, well, louis xv will kick it eventually... which will lead to two madames being alive at the same time in the story. fun!
> 
> (though in my opinion, kat wears the title well.)
> 
> the diary portions are based off of some memoirs from the court of louis xiv and the regency of louis xv, by a previous madame who... was quite the character. elisabeth charlotte, duchess of orleans was a very amusing lady indeed. 
> 
> madame adelaide was, according to my reading, the bitchiest of louis xv’s spinster daughters, ringleader of the bunch, and someone who really wanted to have more political influence. she and her sisters were known for being very pious... and they hated marie antoinette, who happened to spend a lot of time with them despite the fact that they would do anything they could to sabotage her. lovely gals! 
> 
> and this concludes the history lesson for this chapter!

**From the Memoirs of Madame Adelaide**

_Regarding Persons of Interest in the Reign of her Father Louis XV._

_iv._

_Grand Duchess Yekaterina Petrovna of Russia; later, Madame Catherine, Duchesse D’Anjou_

In honour of the late Madame, my father has procured for my uncle a Tatar bride to replace her. My poor aunt, may her soul rest in peace, spent so much of her life complaining about her lot and it is sad that she is unlikely to cease this habit in the afterlife. Let the angels withstand her endless groaning!

The new Madame has convinced all the world to love her. They say that from icy Russia, the gift of sunshine has been bestowed upon France. She has surprised us all by having the manners expected of the most gently bred princesses in Europe. She owns the finest pair of eyes at court; her teeth are uncommonly brilliant and seem to always be on display. She smiles too widely, yet it becomes her. Her hair is very fine, very fair; her complexion equally so. She behaves as if it is the greatest privilege in the world to be among us, just as she ought to.

Scarcely a year has passed since her arrival, and the new Madame’s father the Czar kisses the feet of the King of Prussia, caring not a whit for the alliance the late Empress tried so hard to form by sending us his frivolous daughter. Madame lives only to dance and be merry, as if she does not realize there is no use to her. My father is thoroughly charmed, however, and my uncle loves to host parties where his little wife commits crimes against music on the harpsichord, to an adoring crowd.

To her credit, it must be said that Madame observed the length of mourning required of her, and as she has laid a spell on all who are weak to the charms of a young girl many otherwise sensible persons will say that a lady in the flush of her youth should not spend the whole of it in mourning. I will not begrudge her the right to frolic and be gay like any silly young girl might wish to do, especially in a place such as this where the population of silly young girls is so great. It does confound me that a person who has allegedly expressed no desire but to live peaceably among us should conduct herself in so shocking a manner as Madame, who has decided as of late to exchange her widow’s weeds for a man’s riding costume. My late uncle would not have stopped this foolishness were he still with us, I know that well enough. All this proves is that, as they say, if you scratch a Russian but slightly, you will find the Tatar underneath.

Because everything Madame does is delightful to him, my father will not hear of correcting her. His inherent goodness has always been challenged by his weakness for pretty things, and I hope God forgives me for speaking only the truth on this matter. Never has a man so good been spoiled so horribly by the intrigues of wenches as my father has been! I sympathize with his cries about how he cannot spend godly time with his own sister without being accused of impropriety, but with the way things are in this court it is only to be expected that people would say things like that.

My niece the Comtesse de Provence says that if the Dauphine would stop spending so much time with Madame, she might have more left over for working on giving us an heir. I contend that if Madame could, she would put a child in the Dauphine herself, she spoils her so. Some of us are already looking to the future while my father lives on in good health, it seems. Even as she abuses her, though, our Comtesse has been heard to lament that she does not think Madame likes her very much.

Madame is not known to dislike anyone, or speak ill of a single person. She is a true saint, or a fool, or the most wicked and artful creature in all the world. In a place like this, especially with as many years among us as she has by now, it is simply impossible not to discern the many ways in which everyone around us is ridiculous. Yet this little aunt of mine holds nothing but goodwill for all, even those who have not always had a kind word to say about her despite the disproportionate adoration she has received most of her life. One has to wonder if behind those much celebrated eyes of hers lies the desire to watch us all burn.

***

In Russia, Katya used to be praised for her motherly instinct. She often heard that it would serve her well, that she would one day become the ideal wife and mother. All she did to deserve such praise was keep her little brother company when he needed it, so she would laugh off any comments in her favour by admitting that the very thought of motherhood frightened her. Although her own upbringing suggested that when she had children they would most likely be raised by a coterie of servants, the very prospect of bringing a life into the world, with all the perils it involves, was enough to spook her. Katya doubted she could ever withstand childbirth without feeling some responsibility for the life she’d have created. She always imagined herself being one of the unlucky mothers, the ones who lose their dear little objects to fate, and she’s always known she’d probably be overwhelmed by grief if she suffered a loss of that caliber.

Motherhood has always seemed so  _dangerous_.

Since her arrival to France, she has been thrust into motherhood nonetheless. It hasn’t been as grim as she imagined it to be, especially since she was provided with ready-made children and never carried her own while she was married. She can then be thankful that, in the case of all but one of Monsieur’s daughters, she was either their equal in age or younger. She could never imagine what she would do if an infant was put in her care.

Despite their closeness in age, Monsieur’s daughters adopted her as their _Petite Maman_ , and she has become a beloved part of the family. It is to her advantage that it’s turned out that way, she has always thought that her survival in France depends on the amount of goodwill she can generate. Her maternal energy extends to her late husband’s cats, whom she would have cared for even if he hadn’t asked it of her.

She has had a soft spot for the Dauphin since she met him, back when his father and mother were still alive, before he became the direct heir to the throne. He had the air of a child who wasn’t loved well enough even back then; painfully shy, needing to be coaxed like a frightened animal, often paralyzed in the company of others. Katya hoped to create a space where he might be easy when he needed it, and he’s grown to trust her. Her door is always open to him, but he won’t impose on her hospitality without informing her in advance, so she can assure him that it will be no trouble.

Katya thinks he’s a darling. She always develops a soft spot for sweet, sad children. They remind her a little of her Pasha. He may hate her now, but Katya has never forgotten her little brother. 

If she’d had a choice in the matter, she would not have minded living the single life until he was old enough to cope without her. He was so little when she left Russia, only seven years old, young enough that he thought it was within his power to arrange a _different_ marriage so that they would not be separated. If it meant she would stay, he would even marry her himself. When it dawned on him that he could not bid her to stay, he took to hitting her and crying out that if she insisted on abandoning him, he never wanted to see her again. Her attendants did their best to soothe her, but she had walked away from him with tears in her eyes.

Sometimes she writes to him, still. She has not received a single letter back, but it’s one of the few ways she allows herself to express her thoughts. In her mind, she imagines Paul throwing them into the fire upon receiving them. That’s a good place for her complaints to be stored.

It’s important to her that she keep a brave face in front of her family here in France. Not that she’s truly miserable, she has plenty to be happy about. Her life is comfortable, she wants for nothing, and she has been loved by her benefactors. The King insists that she regard him as an older brother, and dotes on her in a way that makes her wonder if Monsieur put him up to it, forgetting that his conduct towards her has not changed by much since she first met him. Her married step-daughters invite her to their homes often enough, and those who chose the convent life don’t mind receiving her either.

In life, her husband treated her well, never pushed her beyond her comfort, and essentially kept her as pampered as a spoiled pet. He was kind enough to say she did well for him when they said their last goodbyes. It was a strange feeling, being married to someone who behaved more like a father to her, but it was preferable to what other women have been dealt with in marriage.

Try as she might to appear like she never experiences sadness or loneliness, though, her heart tells her otherwise. The last thing she wants is to be seen as ungrateful, so those feelings must be contained.

Katya makes sure that the cats are kept away from the sitting room, and that there are plenty of cakes for the Dauphin to eat when he comes to see her. As he usually does upon arrival, the Dauphin kisses her cheek and asks how his _Petite Tante_ is doing when they sit down for tea.

“You have been at court often,” he says.

“Where else would I be?” Katya says, with a laugh.

She sips her tea before adding, “I have been getting to know the Dauphine quite well lately.”

The new Dauphine is yet another sweet, sad child she seems to have adopted, and that is one of the few things she seems to have in common with her husband. The Dauphin squirms uncomfortably at the mention of his wife, and is only calmed when he diverts his attention to the cakes.

“She’s a lovely young woman,” Katya offers. “Reminds me a little of you.”

“I do not think the Dauphine would agree with that,” the Dauphin mumbles, nearly incomprehensible with a mouthful of cake to contend with.

“Does she not think herself delightful? That sort of modesty is another thing the two of you share.”

There is a deep flush on the Dauphin’s face.

“I—” he stammers. “I am certain that she hates me, and would not wish to be compared with me. Everyone sees me as a disappointment, and I know this, but I hope I can make you believe that I am trying.”

Katya is inclined to believe him. It could be the excessively tender feelings she holds for him, but she’s sure that the Dauphin is trying his best, in his own way. She _wants_ to, at least.

It grieves her to have found herself in a position to wish that he might try just a little bit harder. The last time she saw the Dauphine, an offhand comment about how her stepdaughter was expecting a child had reduced the poor girl to tears. She’d been in France for three years already, and Katya knows the rumours. As much as she likes to mind her own affairs, it’s impossible not to hear the whispers in such a bustling place as Versailles.

The distress it caused the Dauphine to hear about another woman’s impending motherhood confirmed to Katya the fact that her marriage remained unconsummated. Unlike Katya’s late husband, Louis-Auguste has a reputation for a voracious appetite at the dining table and not in the bedroom. This is a challenge the Dauphine would find more difficult to bear than Katya ever did. A marriage that is known to be unconsummated can be dissolved with ease. There was always the expectation that Monsieur would be unlikely to resist a young girl handed over to him on a silver platter, so Katya’s own marriage was hardly ever put into question. And Katya was never expected to produce an heir to the throne, not like the Dauphine. 

The more time Katya spends with the Dauphine, the more she grows to like her. The more she likes her, the more she wants her to succeed. She knows the Dauphine trusts her; she has allowed her the privilege of calling herself by her childhood nickname, Trixie. She thrust this privilege upon her with such sweet earnestness that Katya avails herself of it when they are alone. She takes care to be nothing but respectful to her in public, to encourage others to follow her example. Her door is open to Trixie much like it is to the Dauphin, and Trixie has become such a fixture that one of the cats has become especially fond of her. She has, in a way, become Trixie’s shield; her arms are always open when the dear girl needs a respite from the stress of her uncertain position.

Still, without a pregnancy there is little Katya can do to help her.

She loves her nephew, but with her own experience as a young girl frightened to death of being found wanting in a strange new land, her sympathies lie with Trixie more than they do with Louis. His natural reticence has been cause for concern since before Trixie had to contend with it. Katya has already spoken to her about Louis’ character, and advised that she be gentle with him.

“He can be skittish,” she’d said. “Patience is key.”

Louis needs to be spoken to as well, though, and Katya has taken it upon herself to do so. Nevertheless, it would not help Trixie at all if she sends the Dauphin into a panic with her prodding, so she turns the conversation to his exploits in the hunt. That calms him, somewhat.

***

**From the Memoirs of Madame Adelaide**

_Regarding Persons of Interest in the Reign of her Father Louis XV._

_xvi._

_Marie Violette of Savoy, Comtesse de Provence_

A bride was sent for to be wed to my nephew, Provence, and I am at the very least pleased to see a princess of good, Catholic stock be selected for the role. It seems that as of late there is either a wedding or the departure of a princess to a convent, one following the other as if it were a well choreographed dance...

Like the Dauphine, the Comtesse is uncommonly tall, but unlike the Dauphine she is able to carry herself with the grace becoming of a great Princess of the French Royal Family. We were much diverted by the sight of this princess, whose feet barely touch the ground and whose every move is as fluid and natural as the flowing river, partnered with my nephew, for whom the act of rising from a seated position is no small effort, bless his dear heart. She has fine, dark eyes, though the look of them is far too lusty; she has yet to be seen to smile in a way that displays her teeth, and I can only surmise that they are bad enough to require concealment, but at least she is wise to her own physical deformities; her figure is not unlike that of an ant. Her looks are dark overall, and I suppose she cannot help being Italian in that regard. She seems utterly devoid of the passions which often afflict her people.

If the Comtesse could find it in herself to sacrifice mere vanity for wisdom, she would cease to tighten her stays as much as she does. The Dauphine has the advantage of being fat enough that if she wished to feign a pregnancy, we may believe it for a moment, but the Comtesse does nothing but advertise her infertility to all the world and call it beauty.

Determined to run contrary to the Dauphine in every way, the Comtesse is the most devoted of nieces to myself and my sisters, while the Dauphine favours Madame. There is no harm in pretending we love her better for it.

The Comtesse fancies herself amusing. Her sole virtue is that one will always know she speaks the truth according to her own disagreeable thoughts.

It is only a matter of time before the court realizes her criticisms of the Dauphine ought not be paid much mind when she herself is a useless creature.

***

Marie Therese greets her sister with a smile that almost adds a touch of beauty to her features.

“Oh, Viola!” she cries, sinking into Violette’s embrace. “You’ve become a true Frenchwoman!”

“As have you,” Violette responds. She holds her tightly. They scarcely had a moment together on the night of Marie Therese’s wedding to the Comte d’Artois, the youngest of the Dauphin’s brothers, and she really did miss her.

It’s a bittersweet reunion nonetheless. Having arrived in France with her ego to the sky, knowing she had been sent for because the previous royal marriage in their generation had not proven fruitful, Violette’s joy at seeing her sister again is marred by the thought that it was due to her own failure that the marriage had been arranged so soon.

 _Artois could not have remained single forever_ , she tells herself.  _I am not the reason for everything that happens at this court._

_I should enjoy the privilege of seeing a relative again and living together with her. Not everyone is so lucky._

Marie Therese inherited little beauty, and even littler brains, but her heart is the biggest in their family. That may be the only explanation for her success where both Violette and the Dauphine have failed. Come morning, after their wedding, no one had reason to cast doubts on the healthy state of the Artois marriage.

Violette chides herself for her growing resentment towards sweet, stupid Marie Therese. _Something_ had to go right in her life, and as a big sister she supposes she should be proud. As a sister in law, however, she is deeply grieved.

She still promises her sister that she will look after her, like she had when they were younger. Marie Therese may not be the ideal companion in some ways, but Violette is glad to have her. She has few choices for company, and with the Dauphine practically attached to Madame, notwithstanding the tense state of their relationship, Violette is often left to seek out the royal hags for company. There are few advantages to calling on the King’s spinster daughters as often as she does, they are tremendous bores, but it is somewhat entertaining to hear them criticize every soul at court. Especially when the object of their displeasure is the Dauphine.

She’s not stupid enough to think they like _her_ any better, but she’s grown used to sitting in quiet, mutual dislike with others.

As time crawls along, though, she finds that abusing the Dauphine is not as satisfying as she once thought. Thanks to Madame’s constant presence at her side, it’s difficult to really ruffle her without having to watch Madame spring right into action, bringing a smile back onto her face. Her own relationship with Madame is nonexistent, so Violette can’t figure out why it bothers her to see the tenderness with which she treats the Dauphine. The woman made it clear from the outset that she would become the Dauphine’s creature, and the royal aunts have said that Madame is a wily sort who is always keen to attach herself to the source of power. Such a person would naturally prefer to align herself with the future queen, and for all her faults time has yet to strip the Dauphine of her golden destiny.

Madame is a clever one, that’s for sure. Violette keeps the gloves she’d received from her stashed away.

When she _is_ able to direct a casual barb in the Dauphine’s direction, the resulting scowl on her face does little to lift Violette’s spirits. It feels cheap. As pathetic as the Dauphine seemed to her at first, Violette finds it increasingly difficult to maintain her feelings of superiority. _She’s_ not doing much better, after all. No one has taken her aside and berated her for not doing right by her own husband, for not bearing a single son in the three years she has been at court, but she has heard her name whispered alongside that of the Dauphine’s when courtiers see fit to complain about the new, barren generation. The one time she was asked about her failure to become pregnant, she truthfully snapped that it was not her fault. With her own experience as an example, she can almost imagine how difficult things must be for the Dauphine, lacking as she is in Violette’s natural graces.

When she thinks about it, the only thing there is for her to dislike about the Dauphine, and about Madame, is that neither are inclined to like her. Upon further reflection, she can lay the blame squarely on herself, at least when it comes to the Dauphine. She has never directly addressed an unkind word to Madame, but with the way words spread through Versailles, she may very well be aware of the things Violette has said behind her back.

The trouble is that she’s never been the best at verbally admitting her own wrongdoing. So, Violette has decided to say nothing at all. They’re required to spend time together all the same, because it makes some kind of sense that the younger generation band together and share moments of leisure. The awkwardness of these gatherings is no less excruciating to Violette than afternoons with the royal aunts.

Days as a _petite fille de France_ are a careful balance of tedious etiquette and idle hours, in which the options for how to fill them are slim. Or well, so it has been in Violette’s experience.

Busying herself with acclimating Marie Therese to life in Versailles, helping her apply the correct amount of rouge and correct the deficiencies in their upbringing when it came to dressing, makes Violette feel a little bit human again. It surprises her that she needed to regain that feeling at all.

***

One evening, plans are made for the young royal couples, supervised by Madame, to see a new opera out in the capital.

The Dauphine had fallen in love with Paris on her first visit, and her enthusiasm for music is well known. The first time Violette ever acknowledged that the Dauphine may possess something of value was when she began to display her lovely singing voice. Secretly, Violette likes to hear her sing, especially because the more her musical talents are brought to the forefront, the less reason there is for Madame to inflict torture on her poor harpsichord at parties. In fact, the Dauphine has proven herself more than competent at the instrument, and has lately relieved Madame of her duty to punish everyone’s ears by supplementing her sweet voice with very fine playing.

At the theatre, Violette and her husband end up separating the Dauphine from her precious Madame, seated between them in their private box. Madame engages Marie Therese in conversation, and while the show has yet to begin, Violette scoffs to see the Dauphine stealing constant glances across at her beloved.

“You know she won’t disappear,” Violette whispers, leaning to the Dauphine’s side and covering her words with her fan. Those lovelorn glances have frustrated her enough to forget her resolve to be kinder, or at least to leave her sister in law alone. She will chalk it up to being seated right next to her. “Madame is supposed to be watching _us_ , is she not?”

The Dauphine pouts, and turns to send a smile to her own husband. The Dauphin has fixed his eyes upon the horizon and does not seem to be registering a single thing in his vicinity. Watching their future king carry on makes Violette fear for the future of France. At the very least, he is _gentle_ and stupid, unlike her own husband, who complements his stupidity with crudeness.

“I can keep an eye on her in your stead, to ensure that my sister has not endangered our dear little aunt in any way,” she continues, more gently than before. “I wish you would be at ease.”

“Madame, I do not require your conversation to be at ease.”

Violette snaps her fan shut, clutches it with both hands on her lap. The Dauphine defends herself so infrequently, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Violette diverts her attention to the stage.

Well into the first act, Violette can still feel the sting from the Dauphine’s words. While she feels it, she only thinks of how impossible it is to talk to her. No wonder so many at court find her to be cold! In a fit of pique, she glances to the side so she can look at the Dauphine’s profile, and perhaps focus in on the slight layer of fat that will one day fully merge her chin with the rest of her neck. It can’t happen soon enough.

In the back of her mind, Violette has always known that the Dauphine is far from disgusting. The aunts like to emphasize her plumpness, because in truth it is the only aspect of her physical features that could harm her in the eyes of others. Curiously, criticism of the Dauphine’s looks remain confined to the aunts’ chambers, while the rest of the court finds her deportment more lacking. As gifted as she is with the harpsichord, dance is more important at Versailles, and moving gracefully is a skill the Dauphine continues to be soundly defeated in by Violette.

The Dauphine now leans forward in her seat, her arms propped upon the railing of the balcony. One of her hands taps along to the rhythm, and Violette momentarily stares at her fingers as they accurately keep in time with the music. Her eyes are focused on the stage; there are no more pathetic glances for Violette to intercept. No, the dreamy looks are now reserved for the performers. Violette is captivated by her parted lips, and her warm, half-lidded eyes.

She snaps herself out of her trance, and leaves their box to catch her breath.

She thinks she’s hallucinated an angel in the place of the Dauphine. 


	3. to all tomorrow’s parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been asked for a cheat sheet re: titles and forms of address, so this chapter’s history lesson is about just that! it’s especially important this chapter because we’ve got some changes coming up right quick.
> 
> the french royal family referred to the direct heir to the throne as the dauphin. his wife (the dauphin was always male, princesses couldn’t inherit which... really affects how royal women are viewed in this court) was called the dauphine. up to this point, that has been trixie’s role at court, but of course... the moment the old king dies, she’ll be queen. 
> 
> when it comes to people like katya and violet... i combed the internet for a concise explanation as to what they would be called, and how a change in regime would affect this. 
> 
> this is the best possible explanation i found, in the memoirs of elisabeth charlotte, duchess of orleans:
> 
> “The brother and the sister-in-law of the King are called simply Monsieur and Madame, and these titles are also contained in my brevets; but I suffer myself to be called commonly Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. Madame de Berri will be called Madame la Duchesse de Berri, because, being only an Enfant de France of the third descent, she has need of that title to set off her relationship. There is nothing to be said for this: if there were any unmarried daughters of the late King, each would be called Madame, with the addition of their baptismal name.”
> 
> so uh. my understanding is that beyond the king/queen and the heir, titles get a little hairy. still it was very important for people to be called by their rightful title, especially when it denoted a close proximity to the king. and the simpler the title, the more prestigious. but the specifics... hard to suss out, and i kinda pulled some things out of my ass for the story tbh.
> 
> when katya came to court, the role she served was that of the king’s sister in law. therefore, she’s madame as long as the king stays the same as when she appeared.
> 
> obviously when the king dies and trixie’s husband becomes queen, her role in the royal family changes, and... someone else becomes the king’s sister in law. even though violet would have claim to that title, in my narration i will never use ‘madame’ to refer to violet... because i feel like that will keep brains from blowing up. 
> 
> louis xvi, trixie’s husband, historically had two younger brothers: the comte de provence, and the comte d’artois. per wikipedia, provence did come to be known as monsieur when his brother became king, but artois was known as comte d’artois for a good chunk of his life, and nothing says that he had any right to the title of monsieur. why? no flippin’ clue. 
> 
> if i refer to them at all, i’ll call provence... provence, or refer to him as violet’s husband. artois will, likewise, be artois or louis’ youngest brother.
> 
> of course, and especially because the real louis did actually take as long as he did to consummate his marriage/provence never managed to put a baby in his own wife, they both married. so trixie has two sisters in law... one of whom is violet, comtesse de provence. (name frenchified to violette because that’s what they did to all the princesses... i couldn’t find any particularly frenchified name for trixie so bleh.)
> 
> the other one was called marie therese irl, was the real comtesse de provence’s sister, and i am keeping both of theae facts. and of course, she’ll also be called comtesse d’artois.
> 
> i hope this helps a little! though there’s a reason i’ve given up my dreams of being a teacher. anyway, here’s the story!

Louis XV goes out hunting on April 27, 1774; though well enough to go out at all, he feels sufficiently weak to remain in his carriage for the duration of the hunt. His condition only deteriorates with the passing days. On the 3rd of May, the King alone is brave enough to voice what no one else dares to in his presence: he has contracted smallpox.

In gratitude for the grace he has bestowed on her since her arrival, Madame joins his daughters in nursing the dying monarch. The danger of infection doesn’t bother her; the fatalist in her entertains the thought that it may be for the best, to disappear with the old king. Though only 26, she feels like she will become a relic in the new king’s court. As if to prove her right, nobody stands in the way of her decision. The truth is that as far as the great Bourbon dynasty is concerned, Madame, along with the King’s spinster daughters, simply doesn’t matter.

Katya’s sole responsibility is to hold the King’s hand. She lets it rest on one of her palms, and uses the other to rub little circles onto his skin. It seems to bring him some comfort. She attempts to sing, but while it makes him laugh, there’s something painful about the sound of it, so she stops. Disease ravages him, caring not that he was placed on a throne by God, and there is hardly any dignity to his slow decline.

He won’t allow her to stay to the bitter end. While he is still able to speak, his face slowly claimed by swelling, he gives her leave to go.

“My dear Madame,” he says, with great difficulty. “I should not like you to remember your poor old brother like this.”

She is shuffled from his deathbed, and into isolation. When the candle at the window in Louis XV’s room finally goes out, she is not able to join the rush to greet the rising sun. She will have to wait until she is out of quarantine. The sound of all the court speeding towards the new reigning couple is just like the rolling of thunder, and for a moment Katya wonders if it has begun to rain.

The former Dauphine, now Queen of France, would have liked to see her favourite’s face among the crowd hastily assembled in her apartments. Her husband has her hand in a vice grip, miraculously firm despite the sweat on his palm. Louis XVI greets the news of his accession with an ashen face. He falls to his knees, to pray. Trixie can’t help but to follow him, linked as they are by their hands. Even if they weren’t, she would have done the same. She feels sick to her stomach.

“Dear God, guide us and protect us,” Louis says, shakily. “We are too young to reign.”

The Queen’s composure through it all is commended by those she greets that day. Trixie will hardly remember how she managed that, she’s frozen solid in her recollections, but she can’t complain about having made a favourable impression in her first few hours of being queen.

There’s no time for any of it to sink in. It is imperative that the court quit Versailles, so that the late King has no chance to take anyone else down with him. Madame joins the late King’s daughters, now the new King’s aunts, in one carriage; the Queen rides with her husband, his brothers, and their wives. Louis continues to grip Trixie’s hand, has hardly let it go since he was told of his grandfather’s death. Another hand claims her free one, and she does not register that it belongs to the Comtesse de Provence until the somber spell that death cast on their little party is broken by the Comtesse d’Artois mispronouncing a word in her nervous attempt to make conversation.

As they all laugh at the sweet fool’s mistake, Violette squeezes Trixie’s hand. Trixie doesn’t know what to make of it, but is too exhausted to complain. She gives her a small, private smile instead, to thank her for the gesture.

Violette turns to her window. Her hand remains wrapped around Trixie’s until Trixie pulls it out herself.

***

Louis officially removes the ‘Auguste’ from his name, now that he is king. Though there is no need for it, Trixie decides to drop the ‘Caroline’ from hers. She’d rather not invite any comparison to her grandmother, fearing that she would come up short. She signs her formal letters as Beatrice, and finds that it is nice to have a shorter name to contend with.

There’s some confusion regarding Madame’s place in the new order. Now that Louis XVI sits on the throne, the Comtesse de Provence ought to be addressed by her title, as _she_ is now the wife of the King’s younger brother. The matter is settled thus: formally, Violette is the new Madame, and Katya must suffer herself to be called Madame la Duchesse d’Anjou. Informally, Katya is now _la Grande Madame_ , and Violette is _la Petite Madame._

When spoken of in concert, and in many historical works created long after they’re both dead, they will be known as _the Mesdames_.

Katya is deeply amused by the change. She loves being the Big Madame, because she always has to tilt her head up a bit to look the Little Madame in the eye. She likes to sign her letters as ‘the Old Madame’. Violette gladly takes on the simple moniker of ‘Madame’ in her own correspondence.

Trixie isn’t all that concerned about Madame’s official title. Ever since she gave Madame leave to call her by her childhood pet name, Trixie has been wanting a more intimate form of address to use with her.

One day, she bites the bullet and asks.

“Shall I call you Catherine?”

Flustered, though God only knows why, she adds, “After all, I’ve given you leave to call me Trixie. Fair’s fair.”

Madame blushes, her pretty gaze falls to her lap while she considers it.

“In Russia,” she says, finally. “My brother called me Katya. Your Majesty is welcome to, if you please.”

Trixie whispers the name to herself later that night, as she prepares for bed. It’s beautiful.

Having grown weary of the increasingly dissipate court of Louis XV, France is aglow with optimism at the _regeneration_ promised by its new king. Across the Channel, the British king has all the trimmings of the family man, and his example is slowly becoming the newest mode for princes. Louis is seen as a step in this direction. He has, purely by inclination, put an end to the revolving door of royal mistresses that characterized his grandfather’s reign.

The example set by her brother in Britain draws some natural attention to the ways in which Trixie could help bring about the same idyllic picture of family life to the Continent. For once, this puts her origins in a favourable light. Having been raised under the same roof as her morally upright brother, it is said that she may be up to the task of creating that same domestic propriety in the French court.

Her brother’s ever-expanding brood is another point of interest. Perhaps, courtiers wonder, his sister will produce such a crop of heirs for France in due time. For a blessed moment, the troubles of the royal marriage bed, present from the very beginning, are forgotten as eyes turn instead to the promise of tomorrow.

Trixie isn’t able to drop her worries about her childlessness so easily. Since she left home, she has congratulated George on the births of four children, bringing her total number of nieces and nephews by him to ten. With every new birth, a chasm deepens inside of her. Having a short break from the whispers, from the jeering, from the knowledge that her people do not appreciate the fact that she has not produced a single child in the time it took her brother’s queen to produce four, is comforting but not enough to alleviate the pain.

It’s a new beginning, and yet nothing has changed. Her husband does not want her any more as King than he did as Dauphin. Her marriage remains a sham, and it is difficult for her to be happy for her own brother’s good fortune when there’s nothing she can do to bring about the same for herself.

Dearest Louisa in Denmark dies giving birth to a little princess, christened Beatrice Augusta. Though the loss of her sister is devastating, a part of Trixie wishes it was her who had died in childbirth. At least then she would fulfill her purpose.

***

Trixie offers Katya a place as Mistress of her Household, which Katya declines. She feels like she is already high enough on the pecking order, and as much as she adores the Queen, she is beginning to wonder if it might be best to spend a little more time away from her.

Having taken the weight of the world and hoisted it upon her own shoulders, Katya is haunted by Trixie’s domestic strife. She had hoped that becoming king would give Louis some encouragement, or at least a sense of urgency. Yet the King continues to live as he did when he was Dauphin; he eats, he hunts the stag, and he spends hours at his forge just as he always has. Trixie has tried accompanying him on his hunts, and encourages him to read to her from his favourite history books, as he has a keen interest in British history and she ought to hear about her own country’s past.

The Queen tells her that she once extracted a promise from her husband to bed her at a certain date. Though he was sympathetic, promising to follow through with her request, it did not happen.

Katya can’t bring herself to discuss it with the King, who still visits her from time to time for hot chocolate and cakes. The very mention of Trixie puts the fear of God right in him. It makes no sense to Katya, who knows Trixie differently. To her, Trixie is the sweet young woman who sends bits of ribbon for her cats to wear, who writes _Dearest_ _Angel_ when she addresses letters to her, someone pure and eager to please. 

She wishes she could strike the King for his sluggishness. He is no longer a child.

Before she became queen, courtiers thought the Dauphine would be much improved if she retained her looks, but had the elegance of the Comtesse de Provence, and Madame’s natural charms. Katya believes that even though she is not perfect, Trixie is high among the loveliest women she has ever met. The world, in its foolishness, still likes to place the blame for everything that is wrong with her marriage on the Queen, and the thought of that is distressing to Katya.

If Katya were the King…

 _No_.

Whenever Katya thinks about the Queen too much, if she is in her apartments, she takes the nearest cat and pampers it on her lap until the thought goes away. She goes to Paris, to take in the ballet all on her own. The Queen no longer needs her to chaperone her outings, and yearning for ballerinas is much better than yearning for Trixie. When she’s bold enough to try, she finds it much easier to find comfort among them than she thought.

Nobody should pay any mind to what a dusty old widow like Katya does, or where she takes her pleasure. The more she does it, the more she thinks her dear, departed husband would not fault her for her actions.

Trixie, meanwhile, burns with rage every time she hears her beloved Katya slandered at court.

 _She would_ _never_ , the Queen tells herself, over and over and over again.

When truth forces her to look it in the eye, though, Trixie realizes she doesn’t know Katya well enough to make that kind of call.

*** 

Sometimes, Trixie peeks around corners when she notices Katya wandering the palace on her own. She takes her in as she goes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her expression when she thinks Trixie is not there. Katya seems to drag her feet more when she thinks she’s alone. Her head droops a little, and she moves like she must request permission for every step she takes.

When Trixie makes herself known to her, it’s like the puppeteer in charge of conducting Katya’s movement snaps out of a trance. She is suddenly upright and beaming, extending her arm so that Trixie can loop hers around it.

Katya increasingly prefers to be alone in the evenings. Trixie could, in theory, demand the pleasure of her company whenever she wishes, but it doesn’t feel proper to do so. She no longer responds in kind when Trixie pulls faces at her during Mass. Instead, Katya prays furiously, on her knees with her eyes shut.

Trixie can feel Katya drifting away from her, leaving her in danger of becoming desperately lonely once again. If there’s anything she’s learned for certain since coming to France, it is that she is not the most social creature. Showing herself before the court is taxing, especially after almost five years of knowing her every move is under scrutiny, and that she is not the most impressive lady in court. As queen, though, she is obligated to make her appearances, so she can’t hide herself as much as she would like to.

The Comtesse de Provence continues to puzzle and vex her. She has ceased her petty attacks, but her very presence causes a stir in Trixie. More often than not, the Comtesse does not open her mouth around Trixie other than to exchange the most banal of pleasantries. She shares Trixie’s lack of interest in widening her social circle, and the desperate little clique formed between the two of them, their husbands, and the remaining royal couple stays in place.

Sometimes, the Comtesse will call on her, to show her the latest fashion plates. She points out styles that she thinks might suit Trixie, and Trixie provides bonbons for the two of them to snack on. Trixie tries and fails to find anything especially horrible in her suggestions.

The Comtesse does not complain when Trixie imposes a night at the opera on their little group, and if no one else will accompany her, gamely attends so that she can sit next to Trixie in stony silence. In return, Trixie supports the Comtesse when she proposes outings to masked balls in Paris even though she has developed a hatred for dancing. She finds some joy in sorting out costumes to wear, and appreciates the illusion of walking through crowds as an anonymous individual. Inevitably, someone will see through her disguises, but the moments before that happens are quite peaceful.

She grows to like watching the Comtesse in her element. The Comtesse has been compared to a goddess by the way she moves, and to watch her dance is to fully understand how right that comparison is. Gradually, Trixie’s jealousy gives way to appreciation of an artist at her craft. She asks the Comtesse d’Artois if she’s always been that way, and is told that she has indeed.

“Viola has always been the most elegant lady in the world to me,” sighs Marie Therese. “The Lord blesses some of us more than others, I suppose.”

Before Katya began to distance herself from Trixie, her constant presence was instrumental in keeping her spirits up when she had to preside over court functions. Without her, the experience somehow becomes even more dull. Soon, she finds an unlikely saviour in the Comtesse; she steps in to help Trixie pass the time at court balls by being the object her eyes seek out for the whole of the evening.

Trixie insists that her appreciation for her sister in law’s grace is purely artistic. When all the in laws are gathered for one of their dull, quiet evenings, Trixie puts out the suggestion that they should bring back the practice of court ballets, where members of the royal family would take part. The response is generally lukewarm, though the King’s youngest brother offers his support. She looks to the Comtesse for a reaction, and finds her as impassive as ever.

Trixie thinks the Comtesse would be wonderful in a ballet, but she keeps that to herself.

The Comtesse also helps her find ways to distract herself from her troubles. Their little talks over fashion plates inspire Trixie to take a greater interest in how she dresses. There is so much in her life that is outside of her control, but fretting about gowns, and finding new ways to have her hair styled gives her a new occupation. Being at the forefront of new and ridiculous styles comes much more easily to her than convincing her husband to bed her.

She considers thanking the Comtesse for all that she has done for her, but she cannot be sure that her overtures will be appreciated. Despite herself, she has found her heart warming a little to the woman who seemed to want nothing more than to be her greatest rival from the time she arrived.

All Trixie needs is a sign that the Comtesse wants to be friends, and she’ll gladly extend an olive branch. There’s no use in fighting. Especially when the Comtesse d’Artois falls pregnant, beating them both to the punch.

***

On August 6, 1775, a healthy baby boy is born to the Comte and Comtesse d’Artois. The first Bourbon prince of his generation, he is immediately granted the royal title of Duc d’Angouleme. He is received with his mother’s ecstatic cry of, “My God! How happy I am!”

Royal etiquette forces Trixie and Violette to attend the birth. Violette tenderly wipes the sweat from her sister’s forehead, kisses her hand when the baby arrives, and sincerely congratulates her. If she feels any rancour, she tactfully hides it.

Truthfully, Violette feels nothing at all. Her spirit leaves her body, and she can’t say what force kept the machine of her body running through the _accouchement_ and its aftermath. Somehow, she returns to herself in time to catch sight of the Queen leaving the chamber.

Trixie dutifully embraces the new mother before quitting her rooms. She wades through the cries of the Parisian market-women, exercising their right to access their monarchs when they please by hanging about the halls of Versailles.

“When will _you_ give us an heir?”

All of her energy is focused on conveying herself to her own rooms. When she arrives, she ignores her attendants and shuts herself up in a quiet room. Once she is safe, all of her strength gives way and she crumples to the ground, sobbing inconsolably.

She doesn’t realize someone has opened the door until a soft pair of hands tilt her head up to face their owner.

Violette’s eyes are as hard as ever, but her fingers gently wipe away her tears. Trixie thinks she can see faint tracks leading down her cheek, and she reaches out a hand to confirm that Violette has been crying too.

Violette scoops her into her arms, and Trixie clings to her like a lifeline. She’s surprised by how warm the weight of her feels.

When their lips touch, neither of them resists the pull.

 


	4. the queen’s favourite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was done much faster than i expected!
> 
> i’d like to take this time to thank those of you who are reading this shit. it’s a big fat passion project for me, and i’m glad people have given it a chance! 
> 
> i don’t have much to bore you with this chapter... but yeaaahh marie antoinette really was drawn gettin’ freaky with pretty much everyone but her actual husband and the guy she wound up having an affair with. being in the public eye has always attracted this kind of treatment, i suppose.
> 
> also just wanted to throw it out there, for those of you who might be unaware, that our girls 100% go commando all the time. it was a pussy out kinda time, and since they have multiple layers between their nice gowns and their bare body, it apparently worked out pretty well to do that.

It’s a little bit past noon. The Queen had sent Violette a note, asking if her _Dear Sister_ would like to visit that day. It’s not beneath her to arrive unprompted, but Violette still appreciates the invitation.

She has watched the Queen being dressed for about five years, and can say with certainty that she is much more capable of carrying off the magnificence expected of her now than when she was Dauphine. There’s a subtle dignity about the Queen’s presence, when she chooses to appear at court. The clothes she wears enhance her natural stature so that she cuts an imposing figure without trying, and her oft-praised angelic looks soften the whole to great effect.

Strip her of all the glamorous trappings that have come to define the Queen of France, though, and she is truly resplendent.

Violette swears by the modern court fashions, even works to promote and develop them. They suit her, she loves the excess drama of it all. No headdress is too tall in this day and age, no gown too ostentatious, especially for members of the royal family. She can fool herself into feeling powerful when she puts on her gowns and piles her hair up to the sky. It’s been a project of hers to coax the Queen into pushing herself with her attire, so that Violette may have more options without overshadowing her. Publicly challenging the Queen has, after all, only ever furthered her isolation. For her part, the Queen has seemingly caught on to Violette’s scheme by now, and with an impish wink has devoted herself to increasingly grandiose fashion statements, so that her dearest sister may still be considered subdued by bedecking her hair in jewels.

Now that Violette spends every other afternoon alone with the Queen, with her bare body and her loose curls on display just for her, she can think of a case for paring down the extravagance. The Queen’s hair is silky and soft, brilliant even without the powder all ladies must spackle onto it. She needs no rouge to improve her complexion; she looks like a sweet, ruddy-cheeked milkmaid from a painting without the help of cosmetics. A milkmaid who has fallen into temptation, and given herself over to a dashing young rogue, spoiling her virtue forever.

The Queen is fortunate that the rogue she’s gotten herself mixed up with is sensitive to her needs when it comes to virtue. She’s not very grateful for it, though. She’s in a whining mood, complaining that Violette won’t fuck her properly because she’s careful not to breach her entrance. It’s not the first time Violette has heard of this, and it always makes her laugh.

“We can’t have you ruined,” she replies, gazing up at her with mirthful innocence in her eyes, from where she’s knelt between her Queen’s legs. There are faint little marks on the soft flesh of her inner thighs, where Violette has been considerate enough to nibble so softly that if the King decides to visit the Queen’s chambers that night, he’d find her skin as pure as when she’d woken up that morning. It takes knowing where they are to even notice any markings.

“Won’t your husband be disappointed if he finds out you’ve lost your honour to another?”

The Queen groans.

“You bitch. You know he’ll never find out.”

Violette smirks, laying a kiss just above her sex, atop the short, light curls that grow there. She delights in the way the Queen’s voice cracks at the word _bitch_.

She’s proud of herself. Her methods are effective. A few clever swipes of her tongue are enough to have the Queen shuddering, her complaints silenced.

The Queen then has Violette crawl onto the bed on all fours, so she can show her _exactly_ what she wants. Violette likes to stare straight into her eyes when she licks her fingers clean. She likes to see them darkened with lust for her.

She doesn’t know if it’s normal to get soppy after sex, but it always happens. When they’re laid up together, all flushed and soft from fucking, the Queen likes to play with Violette’s hair. Violette lets her hands wander over the Queen’s pillowy body. She lets one of her legs hook over top of her, though it’s not like the Queen needs it to stay put. She’s kind enough, always, to make sure Violette is ready to rise before doing so herself.

“I’ve convinced Louis to connect our rooms,” says the Queen. Violette is still panting, holding onto the phantom feeling of the Queen inside her.

“Hmm?”

“Maybe he’ll visit, if he doesn’t have to walk right through court, where all and sundry can see where he’s going.”

Violette hums, as if to say she understands. She presses her hand into one of the Queen’s breasts, marveling at its softness, even after all the times she’s been invited to touch her. The Queen absentmindedly covers her hand with one of her own.

She has no interest in commenting on the King’s ridiculous behaviour. She’s already said enough. The Queen can’t be expected to continue her husband’s legacy if he won’t contribute to making that happen. Violette knows from her own experience how challenging it is to produce a child with a husband who won’t fulfill his end of the bargain. She also knows that if he tried, he would find that it’s not such a difficult thing to lay with the Queen, much less to find enjoyment in it. She’s not stupid enough to actually tell him this, but she’s thought about it.

“You do need a child in you,” says Violette. “Carrying France’s greatest hope might help you take better care of yourself. If your hair gets any taller, it may just snap your poor neck.”

The Queen snorts.

“You’re the one who coaxed my hair to those heights. And you get so _cross_ when I don’t heed your advice. I can only make it taller.”

Violette smirks, because she does. Every lady is competing to bear the greatest weight on her head these days; it’s a trend that began, in part, with her and the Queen. It’s something they’ve accomplished as a _team_.

“You know,” the Queen muses, after a beat. “I’ve heard it said that Ka—Madame would like to put a child in me.”

The wistful note in her voice reaches out to smack Violette in the face. The memory that she gladly circulated this rumour, long ago, lands another blow.

“Oh,” she says.

“And yet _you’re_ much closer to doing it than she is,” the Queen giggles. Her eyes are soft and warm. “Who would have thought we’d end up like this?”

Violette can’t let her silence speak for her. She must come up with something to say, so that the Queen could never suspect that she’s been hurt.

“Don’t be stupid,” she murmurs. “No woman could do that. Not me, and certainly not Madame _la_ _Duchesse d’Anjou_.”

If the Queen picks up on her pointed emphasis of the Old Madame’s true position, she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she twines one of her fingers in Violette’s hair and kisses the bridge of her nose with what feels like remorse.

***

The Queen and the Comtesse de Provence have very suddenly become the most intimate of friends and sisters. This is a frustrating development for some courtiers; since their first little spat, observers had hoped that they might add some colour to court life by providing them with a legendary rivalry. How juicy it would have been if they’d chosen to hate each other forever! The drama of it all!

Instead, and almost in the blink of an eye, the two of them have swung from a cold, mutual indifference to the Comtesse spending so much time around the Queen that she appears to have supplanted the Grande Madame as the Queen’s favourite. They call on each other every day, and make visits to Paris together, walking through her gardens, taking in a show, monitoring the many trends germinating in the capital. The Comtesse hands the Queen her chemise every morning without resorting to the shenanigans that the Grande Madame had once used her presence to prevent.

Because the Queen is an overly cautious sort, unwilling to allow more than one person into her intimate circle at a time, there is really no one who can determine exactly how the Comtesse became the Queen’s shadow. Some ladies of the Queen’s household have hinted towards an incident on the day of the Duc d’Angouleme’s birth as a turning point in their relationship. Even so, all they can say about _that_ is that the two spent some hours together in a private room after the Comtesse d’Artois’ delivery. What occurred behind those doors is anyone’s guess.

Although its origin has a whiff of mystery about it, there are certain benefits to their new alliance. Parties at Versailles have become more lavish with the elegant Comtesse de Provence whispering in the Queen’s ear. With the Comtesse’s prodding, the Queen now hosts no less than two parties a week, all fantastically expensive affairs, graciously bankrolled by her husband. One would think the Sun King had risen from his grave at the height of his extravagance—Versailles is, for a moment, returned to the glittering spectacle envisioned by Louis XIV so long ago.

The court is impossible to please. They longed for a well-behaved king, and when they got him, they wished there would be more excitement about the palace. Now, with Queen Beatrice increasing the festivities and standing on the vanguard of all things modish, contributing to France’s cultural primacy in Europe, there are still some who wonder if she might not be better suited for a retired life with her royal husband. It’s not _customary_ for a queen to parade around in gaudy finery, dripping in jewels that could feed a hundred families were they exchanged for grain; that kind of behaviour is more to be expected from a royal favourite.

The King deigns to attend his wife’s fêtes, sure, and even shared the first dance with her at one despite his natural inclinations, but he’s not known to _fully_ appreciate the effort she puts into looking beautiful. There’s _still_ no heir in sight. It’s been _six_ years.

_So, who in the Devil’s name is Queen Beatrice trying to look beautiful for?_

If anyone were to pose that question to its intended recipient, she would primly reply that she should think she is allowed to look beautiful for her own enjoyment.

“Surely if I presented myself to the public in the most haggard state, they would not be satisfied,” Trixie mutters, popping a berry from her champagne glass into her mouth.

Violette turns away from the ostrich feathers she was browsing to face her Queen. “Are you listening to gossip again? I’ve told you there’s no wisdom in paying them any mind. People talk because they lack an occupation, and it’s not like they can force the King to ship you off to a nunnery if he’s not inclined to do so.”

“It’s not just idle chatter,” Trixie presses on, morosely. “I’ve been collecting pamphlets.”

Violette sighs deeply.

“ _Mon_ _Dieu_ ,” she says. “How is Your Majesty even getting a hold of those? And why would you waste your time collecting such garbage? Shall I help you find a new hobby?”

Trixie polishes off her glass. The champagne bubbles burn her throat, and she calls for her glass to be refilled so she won’t have to wait too long to experience the sensation again.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m far too busy fucking every man and woman in my near vicinity to bother with hobbies,” she says. “And there’s really no avoiding them. They’re everywhere, no matter what we do to try and stop them from being printed.”

Violette glances around the room. Their attendants are present, to keep the champagne flowing and the dishes full of pastries. There are merchants standing sentry beside their wares, brought for the inspection of France’s most glamorous duo. She had arranged this afternoon as an antidote for the Queen’s creeping sadness, which ebbs and flows like the tide and had been growing in prominence over the past few weeks. When the Queen grows listless, Violette tries to make sure she can still enjoy some sort of activity, even though she will not hear of taking the air. She claims that she must save her energy for the coming week’s parties. When Violette reminds her that _she_ is the queen, and can always cancel if she truly isn’t well enough for a ball, she refuses to do so.

As tempting as it is to treat servants like living furniture, Violette can’t fall into that trap. They have ears and mouths, after all. The Queen refuses to get in the mood for shopping, anyhow, so Violette dismisses the lot of them, allowing her to speak more frankly with Trixie. When the room is cleared, she goes to the loveseat and settles in next to Trixie. As Violette moves to put a hand over hers, she notices a sheet of paper clutched between Trixie’s hands, folded up like a fan.

“What have you got there?”

Trixie won’t look at her as she wordlessly unfurls the pamphlet, and hands it to Violette for her inspection. She looks like a naughty child.

Violette glances at the document and… of _course_.

The pamphlet is titled _Begging Her Majesty’s Forgiveness_. On the page, the Queen reclines on a settee, her skirts held up, her legs spread wide. A fair-haired woman kneels between them.

Whoever made the picture took care to draw attention to the woman’s sharp nose, which instantly tips Violette off as to her identity.

The Old Madame.

“It’s the only picture we have together,” Trixie whispers.

Violette folds the pamphlet back up, carefully, and hands it over to the Queen. Looking at it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. The second it’s out of her hands she regrets not throwing it into the fire.

“You miss her,” Violette says. “Is that what this is all about?”

Trixie shakes her head.

“I see her every day,” she says. “She attends Mass with us, doesn’t she? And I’m sure if I wrote to her, she would visit again.”

Violette sets her hand over Trixie’s. She doesn’t care if the paper crumples up as she does.

People are so bored that they devote time to speculating on why the Grande Madame has not been seen at the Queen’s side as of late. It makes Violette wonder what sort of tutors educated the idle aristocracy for them to be this way. She’s heard all kinds of theories; that the Queen grew bored of her, that they fought for the love of a ballerina, that Violette somehow convinced the Queen to stop seeking her out, or that the Grande Madame is far too jealous of Violette to suffer the Queen’s company if it means having to be near her also. After all, Violette _does_ seem to have usurped her place as the Queen’s favourite.

Truthfully, Violette has never bothered to ask if anything happened between them. She’s heard nothing of the sort from Trixie, has seen no indication that there’s anything to hear, and simply doesn’t care to know. It’s doubtful that the Queen pushed her away. Violette thinks that the likeliest explanation is that their dear aunt simply wishes to be away from society. She only emerges from her apartments to attend mass, to dine with the rest of the family should they choose to eat together, or to go on her private excursions to the capital. Recently, she spent some time at a Carmelite convent, where her step-daughter resides. Violette almost expected her to remain there indefinitely, but she’s returned to court and has continued eking out a solitary existence for herself. Only God knows why.

It _is_ odd that someone who once attended to the Queen with such tenderness seems determined to put space between the two of them. More vexing is the Queen’s willingness to continue mooning over her, while seemingly incapable of putting pen to paper and asking her over for tea or something.

Sometimes, Violette catches her heart growing far too soft at the thought of the Queen, of her company, of the taste of her. The Queen’s low moods cast a pall over her own. Violette misses her when they’re apart, but she tries not to wonder if the Queen misses her too. Whenever _that_ thought runs through her mind, something heavy settles into the pit of her stomach. That same feeling hits her at the mention of the Old Madame, and whenever she happens to catch sight of her.

That night, Violette resolves to do what the Queen can’t bring herself to.

She will speak to the Old Madame.

***

There’s a pamphlet in Trixie’s collection that she could never show Violette. She swears she can see her stiffen whenever she mentions Katya, no matter how inconsequential, so she can only imagine how she’ll react to being in a picture with her. Especially when she’s shown standing watch while Trixie kneels for Katya.

The pamphlet is worn from how many times she’s folded and unfolded it, from being hastily stashed away when she’s suspected she might be caught looking at it. It’s pretty crudely drawn, but Trixie’s imagination can make up for the artist’s deficiencies.

Trixie knows that looking at these things doesn’t help her, much less keeping them around. Her Comtesse says as much, and she’s absolutely right. It’s one of the things she enjoys about her now, in a perverse kind of way; the Comtesse is fearless, and when she has something to say about her conduct, she will look her in the eye as she says it. It’s nice, not having to wait for someone’s opinions to make their rounds before they reach her ear.

Sometimes, Trixie thinks about hosting a salon where people can come and formally lay out their complaints, to give her public a space where they can address her directly rather than running their mouths behind her back. She can just hear Violette’s voice in her mind, whenever she considers this scheme, telling her she’s got nothing but air between her ears if she thinks that’s a good idea.

“The market women from Paris yell at you all the time, anyway,” she might say. Trixie pictures her doing something mundane while she talks, like dipping a biscuit into hot chocolate. “If you start begging for it like that, you might as well bare your ass to them so they can take turns spanking it.”

She used to hate it when Violette was rude to her, but now something in her warns up at the thought of those words coming out of her mouth.

Sometimes, in her idle hours, Trixie thinks of the picture hidden in her writing desk. It sneaks up behind her whenever her mind goes dull, as she stands in the sidelines at balls, when she’s half-asleep at mass.

Once, when Violette had dozed off beside her during an afternoon tryst, she drifted off into her fantasy and it filled her with guilt once she came down from it. She’d turned around to cup Violette’s face between her hands, and kiss her temple while she stared back, glassy-eyed, trying to blink herself back into consciousness. Violette always submits so patiently to Trixie’s kisses, when she sees fit to give them. Even though she chides her, she even bears her moods with that same easy grace she exudes in all that she does.

Trixie imagines a much less tender Comtesse in her fantasy. In her mind, she will not allow her to look at her.

“Your Majesty must be good for me,” she purrs. Trixie hasn’t yet imagined a scenario where she disobeys, and has no idea what Violette would do if she turned her head back. Thus far, she’s been compelled to be good. “And for _her_.”

Katya lays spread out in front of Trixie. Her face is clearly rendered in her mind’s eye, but as she has not had the privilege of seeing her naked, she has to work with what the artist imagined her body to look like. Trixie pictures her holding a hand out, to cup her face when she leans into it. Her gaze is soft and kind, though she imagines her eyes darkened with lust.

“Go on, now,” Violette would say. Trixie can _hear_ her smirk. “You want to please her, don’t you?”

 _God, yes_.

It’s been a while since Trixie has heard Katya’s voice. She revels in thinking about her moaning in pleasure because of her, of her encouraging words.

“So good, Trixie…”

She wonders if she’d taste like Violette.

Violette herself lends her voice to the fantasy more than anything, sharp as a whip cracking over her back. She mocks her eagerness to taste Katya, the position she’s in. Sometimes, though, Trixie imagines her fucking her at long last. She has no idea what Violette’s fingers would feel like inside of her, but the thought of it excites her, and it may soothe the emptiness she feels if it happened.

She knows that nothing on Earth can fill that void. Even when she derives whatever pleasure she can out of a picture meant to slander her, that hollow feeling remains.

It’s not like she hasn’t turned to sin. Trixie herself can’t identify the reasons for the state of affairs between her and her Comtesse, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world as it unfolded. Violette led her gently, kissing her first, even by making an effort to spend time with her before and after that incident. She remembers the first time she’d seen her undressed having been incidental, a result of Trixie asking if she could see how Violette could move so beautifully. They had already wound up in each other’s arms, kissing greedily, at least once whenever they were alone, so when Violette cheekily asked for help removing her clothes it was not as shocking as it might have been otherwise.

Trixie remembers, though, that _she_ was the one who took her by the hand and led her to bed.

She needs an anchor. She could not possibly cope without one. For better or worse, the Comtesse has become that for her. It would have been so much simpler, though, if that anchor had been Katya.

It would have been simple if Violette had never looked upon her with kindness, if her initial behaviour towards her had never changed. If she was the cold, demanding voice from Trixie’s daydreams. If Katya was her comfort, if she had never turned away, if she too had stayed the way she was when they first met.

In her _true_ dreams, when she manages to fall asleep, Trixie is a chasm, and Violette falls down, down, down, until she’s engulfed in darkness.


	5. i detest all my sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things should get a little bit lighter soon, for a little while. but for now, we have this.
> 
> “the du barry” refers to madame du barry, louis xv’s final mistress. marie antoinette almost damaged her relationship with louis xv because she refused to acknowledge his mistress... and well, dauphine of france or not she still lived with him as king, so that was not the wisest move. in this story, katya would have told trixie to be nice to the du barry.
> 
> also i gotta say, once again, that the real louis xvi took about 7 years to consummate his marriage to marie antoinette. her brother had to visit all the way from austria to have a chat with him before their little no-babies-in-sight problem cleared up. i can’t say the reason for louis struggling so hard with fathering a kid was the same as the one i arrived at, but... the struggle was real, one way or another.
> 
> for katya’s little reference to her father... her dad was czar peter iii, who (to put it very simply) pissed his wife off one too many times. she staged a coup against him and went on to become catherine the great. he died under somewhat shady circumstances.
> 
> from what i have gathered, building castles can just mean silly daydreaming and fantasizing.

The Comtesse de Provence is the most self possessed woman at court. There isn’t a single person who can truly say they’ve seen her crack. Her own sister asserts that although she’s sure the Comtesse has a good heart, it is next to impossible to ascertain what she’s thinking. She’s the perfect French princess: beautiful, poised, and tougher than steel.

Katya doesn’t know why she’d want to call on her, but she receives her nonetheless. She pours her a cup of tea, hoping that her hands aren’t shaking as she does. She knows she has no reason to fear this woman, and really the Comtesse has shown herself to be stiffly polite at best in Katya’s company, so she’s perfectly within her right to treat her with some disdain. Watching her, though, is a little bit scary. No one can be so perfectly composed all the time and still be human.

“This tea came in from China,” she says, chatting away her nerves. “Watch the flower! Isn’t it wonderful?”

The Comtesse regards it coolly.

“It’s very nice.”

Katya thinks she might as well have served hot chocolate.

Though unimpressed by the novelty, the Comtesse drinks her tea well enough. Katya grins tightly, does not touch her own beverage. She regards her guest while she drinks, and occasionally takes a delicate bite off a pastry. The Comtesse appears unbothered by the staring.

The Comtesse settles her cup on its saucer with finality. Katya, ever the gracious hostess, immediately reaches for the teapot to offer her more. The Comtesse raises a hand, and Katya resumes her original position.

“Why do you pour the tea yourself?”

Katya blinks owlishly, “I see no reason not to.”

The Comtesse never seems to blink. It sends a shiver down Katya’s spine.

“It would be unheard of for either the Queen or myself to do this,” the Comtesse continues. “This palace is such a complicated machine, no royal person should be required to do anything with her own two hands. And yet you live so _simply_.”

She sounds more confused than anything else, but Katya feels a slight sting as the Comtesse speaks. Though she has begun to suspect that she only means to insult her by visiting, Katya is not willing to give into that game. She recalls sending her a gift years ago, when she heard that one of the Comtesse’s first actions at court had been to torment poor Trixie. It was a chiding gesture on her part, something Katya rarely does with confidence, but she stands by it.

This woman has always been a little bit nasty. Katya will persist in being welcoming nonetheless.

“I do not presume to be as important as the Queen,” she replies.

“Come now, Aunt,” says the Comtesse. “You’re no less a member of the royal family than either of us. In fact, we ought to look up to you as our senior.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment. Katya blinks first.

“I think you underestimate your own importance,” the Comtesse delicately concludes.

Katya bites her lip. She asks the Comtesse if she would like another cup of tea, offering to call someone in to pour it if that would make her more comfortable.

The Comtesse declines. They have another staring contest. This time, the Comtesse breaks the stare.

“I came to ask you something,” she says.

It seems she arrived with the purpose of asking a question she had not prepared in advance, because Katya is left to wait politely as she mulls something over with a furrowed brow. She lets out a small sigh. Her gaze then hardens, and is fixed on Katya in its full power.

“Why do you not call on the Queen? Has she offended you?”

Katya gapes at her. She struggles to invent a suitable answer. The Comtesse, in turn, begins to look more imposing in Katya’s eyes.

Katya thinks someone should render her in marble one of these days.

“There’s nothing the Queen could do to offend me.”

It’s not Trixie’s fault Katya’s heart throbs at the thought of her. At the things she’s dared to desire of her. At the things she cannot fix, the ways she never could help her.

The poor Queen ought to have better friends.

The Comtesse’s pretty lips curl into something between an awkward attempt at a smile and a sneer.

“I wish you would write to her,” she says. “Or even pay her a visit. I believe that it would do her good, to know that you have not forgotten her.”

For a second, she appears to look down… _bashfully_.

“She misses you.”

Katya studies her companion. It must be a trick of her eye. What reason does the Comtesse have to feel bashful?

“Has she asked you to speak to me in her stead?”

The Comtesse shakes her head. She doesn’t meet Katya’s eye.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Katya blinks.

When she opens her eyes, the Comtesse looks to be younger than she ever has. Then, Katya remembers that she _is_ young, younger than the Queen even. It’s not what Katya thinks about when she sees her glide purposefully through the palace, as if _she_ is the King and not just his sister-in-law.

They’re not close enough that reaching out to hold her would be appropriate, but Katya would have extended her arms to fold her into an embrace if she were another member of the family. She certainly used to do so when the Queen sat where the Comtesse now sits.

Many afternoons would see her holding the Queen close right at this table, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet reassurances as she cried. She’s not sure if it was last year, or four years ago, that this stopped happening regularly. Time doesn’t pass normally at Versailles.

The Comtesse continues, “I try to make her happy. I do all that I can. It’s simply not enough, and I—I can’t do this alone.”

Suddenly, the Comtesse rises to her feet. She makes her way around the little table, so that she’s on Katya’s side. Katya stands up, too.

She gasps when the Comtesse sinks to her knees. The only thing that makes sense about this is that she does it in one fluid, graceful motion.

“Please, Madame.”

 _God_ , Katya thinks, _she’s a_ child.

“Please help me.”

Katya kneels down and takes her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she says, softly. “I’ll do my best.”

***

When the Comtesse d’Artois was just arrived, Violette had one small piece of advice for her: “Don’t be afraid if you feel like you’re going a little mad. It only means that you’re bored, and that’s the style of life around here. You’ll find that everyone is living to fight it in their own way.”

At one point, Violette handled that all-encompassing feeling of ennui by dancing every night until her feet ached. She liked the pain. She won’t tell the Queen that she sometimes felt her eyes on her, that it made her shiver, but she didn’t really know what to do with that feeling back then. She focused on the growing soreness of her feet, on the way God guided her arms and body just so, until she was too close to passing out from exhaustion to keep going. She always slept like a baby.

If she thought about it with Violette’s words in mind, Katya would posit that the burden of her mind had paradoxically saved her from falling too much into the sickness of Versailles, from the time she arrived until the old king died. Sometimes her traitorous mind would cry out from exhaustion, because unlike Violette she never came to like the pain of sore feet from dancing. She believed it was her job to be the kind of girl who never felt it, though, so she bore it as best as she could. She would think of how important it was to live well with her relations, and endeavour to be the person she needed to be.

She may have stumbled a little with the Queen, but the Comtesse has offered her a chance to redeem herself. As maddening as it was to be embroiled in Trixie’s life, it is no less maddening to be away from her. Filling her nights with pretty dancers, her mornings with repentance, and the hours between them with waiting has not calmed her nerves all that much, after all. Before the Comtesse’s visit, she could hardly be seated without one of her legs shaking like an autumn leaf.

Having a purpose, a distraction, _anything_ that isn’t sitting and contemplating one’s navel is necessary for survival.

Trixie has provided a purpose of sorts to her _Mesdames_ , though each at different points. It’s only natural that the day they come together, it’s all on account of her. She would, however, trade any tender feelings she has aroused in them to be free of the persistent complaint that has made her life so miserable.

She is 24 years old, and all she’s ever known is helplessness. She cannot see how to live otherwise, not when the air itself is so heavy that she needs all the strength she can just to move hither and thither, to be seen like she needs to be.

Katya can feel some of that heaviness settle down on her when she visits her again. Though it is not Violette’s job to do so, she has led Katya into the Queen’s sitting room, and left her to stand there while she coaxes Trixie out of her bedroom. Even while she waits, Katya senses something sombre and desperate in the air, an amplified version of what hangs above them all through the palace.

Violette is no stranger to muscling her way through the entourage that normally surrounds Trixie, and her forcefulness in this regard has made it so that the very sight of her now bids them to disperse. The Comtesse de Provence is the only soul, apart from the King were he to avail himself of the right, that can contrive to have the Queen all to herself without much difficulty. The plan had been for Violette to bring Katya with her for teatime as a pleasant surprise, trusting that no matter how many old farts groan about the state of court etiquette as a result, she has a way to make it an entirely private meeting.

Trixie, though, had been behaving unusually since morning. For the first time since her arrival, the Queen raised firm objections to being intruded upon by anyone. She would not be moved from her bed, and demanded that the curtains be drawn so that the sunlight would not disturb her. Katya, then, was taken by surprise when Violette turned up at her apartments unannounced, asking if she could attend to this emergency with her.

Now, she clutches her hands in front of her while gazing around the Queen’s room, not daring to take a seat.

Meanwhile, Violette extracts Trixie from her bed.

“I’ve brought you a surprise,” she says, a gentle hand applying pressure on the lump of sheets that mostly engulfs the Queen.

“You’ve been called to get me out of bed,” Trixie replies, muffled against her pillow.

“Both of these things might be true,” says Violette.

She takes her hand away, holding it out for Trixie to take, “Now, come with me.”

Trixie is made presentable with Violette’s help. She holds her hand as she steps out of her bedroom, and on to the sitting room.

When she catches sight of Katya, she immediately lets go.

Katya bows in respect of her Queen.

Wide-eyed, Trixie approaches her slowly. When she reaches Katya, she gingerly raises her hands to cup her face, and to tilt it up so she can look at her properly. She keeps her touch light, afraid that if she presses too hard Katya will dissolve into the air.

Katya hardly has time to straighten up properly before Trixie wraps her up in a big hug.

***

“She’s not the Virgin Mary,” Violette scoffs.

They’re in Katya’s apartments. Trixie is practicing the harp, and expects to see them both in the evening for her 25th birthday party. Soon, they will disperse to get properly suited up for the evening’s festivities.

Katya demurs, “People don’t think of it that way.”

The cats have marked Violette as their equal, somehow. She cannot step foot into the Grande Madame’s rooms without attracting the curious attention of Mariannette, Katinka, Felix, Nanon, or Pasha. Outwardly, she does not seem to mind either way, quietly letting the dear little creatures butt their heads against her or climb into her lap. On the inside, she’s starting to think she might like a cat of her own.

“ _Idiots_ ,” she mumbles, scratching behind one of the cats’ ears.

Katya looks away and covers her mouth, to hide her smile. She hopes that, one day, Violette might teach her to let go of her excess scruples.

“I wonder if it would fix things,” she muses. “If Her Majesty had a son. If it would _really_ make the people happy. If it would make _her_ happy.”

“If it gives her peace, she should have a child in her arms.”

Violette gives her a wan smile.

“Our job is to hold her together until God Almighty puts one there for us. Then, we will see what happens. Though I may need you to prevent me from beating the next person who upsets her with my fan...”

Katya lets her see her smile this time. She has grown to like Violette. If she was cruel when she first arrived, that side of her has calmed down over time.

Violette is prickly, but Katya is beginning to understand how the Comtesse d’Artois can claim that she has a good heart. Its reach is small, but where she chooses to bestow her love, she does so fiercely. Katya once thought _she_ was troubled by the impossible situation Trixie is still locked in, but Violette outdoes her. The impotent rage _she_ feels on their mutual friend’s behalf may soon consume her too, if she’s not careful.

Trixie acts well enough in public. She hasn’t tried to eschew her duties so she can hide in bed again, and can still be seen hosting balls in ridiculous confections. Katya now attends these parties, springing out of retirement to be the girl she was at 15, dancing and laughing like a carefree princess in a story. She cannot for the life of her understand how regressing in age like that is helping to promote the monarchy’s _gloire_ , or if that is really the best way to support the Queen, but she endeavours to do her part.

In private, it becomes apparent that Trixie is merely hanging on. She doesn’t cry, but she seldom laughs. When she does, there is an unsettling dryness to it that suggests quiet resignation more than it does happiness.

“If I burned up, and my ashes scattered everywhere, it wouldn’t matter at all,” she’ll say. “There is no purpose to me.”

Violette will immediately demand that she not say such horrible things. Katya never knows what to say when she gets like this, but Trixie has told her she doesn’t like the look she fixes on her in the place of words. Apparently, Katya’s eyes will chasten her as well as Violette’s sharp tongue can.

Katya doesn’t mean to have that effect on Trixie, but hearing her talk about her worthlessness makes her very sad. The fact that she herself wonders what the point of _any_ of them is doesn’t diminish her wish for Trixie to feel differently. She doubts it would be a comfort for Trixie to hear that, though.

_So, what should she say to make it all better?_

She mulls it over as her hair is being piled atop her head how it needs to be for the party, as tiny figurines of her cats are arranged in it with little birds for them to chase, ostrich feathers, and bits of ribbon. These days, getting ready for a party seems to take much longer than it did when she was young. Still, she’s blessed with plenty of time to think.

Somehow, the hour or so it takes to get her pile of curls properly dressed is not enough to negotiate the truth in Trixie’s existential dread with the fact that Katya loves her.

***

Trixie doesn’t throw a grand ball for her birthday. She’s never cared for them, so it does make sense that the party she authorizes is more casual by comparison. Of course, everyone arrives dressed for a ball anyway. The compulsive need to attract attention is an unavoidable guest at every gathering at Versailles, and it _is_ the Queen’s birthday. It won’t do for anyone to slack off in the style department, not when they’re lucky enough to cop an invitation to such an exclusive event.

Violette helped her draw up an appropriate guest list, one that would keep the party reasonably small while stroking the correct egos. Trixie doesn’t force herself to hold lengthy conversations with anyone she doesn’t care for no matter what they tell her, but she does extend invitations in accordance to protocol. She hasn’t developed the nerve to stop. Sensitive of the way her teeth have been judged, she only gives close-mouthed smiles to her guests when they pay their respects to her.

She can hear some minor Princess of the Blood spewing her unique take on their brief encounter as she walks away from her: “Cold as always. There really _is_ too much German in her.”

The court has fallen to depths not seen since the dawn of time; the King is impotent, the Queen has no recourse but to be the man and have mistresses of her own. What a shame that she’s opted for finding them in her own family! People are feeling nostalgic for mistresses of old, even for the du Barry and her ridiculous monkeys.

Trixie thanks God for another year of hearing this shit. She drinks her fill. It’s her birthday, after all.

The evening wears on.

Violette sits with her sister. Apparently, the Comtesse d’Artois is cross because neither Violette nor the Queen have been paying her visits, too caught up in each other, only deigning to include the Grande Madame even though the Comtesse d’Artois has just as much right as she does to be in their private company. She can’t be satisfied with taking pride in her children and is suiting up for a quarrel, so Violette has left Trixie’s side to make up for it. Trixie need not worry her pretty little head; her fixer will handle Marie Therese.

It’s fine. Katya is at her side.

Sometimes it overwhelms Trixie that the people whose company she craves the most are also the loveliest women at court. With the way Violette moves, and the way Katya smiles, she’s not sure how she can breathe. Especially with the air weighing down on her like an anvil. Katya has tried teaching her a certain way to breathe that might calm her, but she’d lay her hand on her chest so she could feel if Trixie was breathing in properly, and that just about drove her mad. Lately, though, she hardly has the energy to take Violette to bed, so nothing will ever come of her foolishness. Not with Katya.

Nothing in her life prepared her to be this kind of queen. It’s not right, either. But what does she have without the soft touch of Violette’s skin, and the warmth of Katya’s presence in her life?

She joins in a game of chance. She doesn’t know if she’s winning or losing, but it’s not time for the party to end and she wants a break from drinking. Louis stammers as he cautions her about playing too much, and she reminds him that he said they could play without specifying how much. He kisses her dice for luck, and says a couple of words to Katya before he leaves for bed. Trixie doesn’t listen to what they talk about. She expects what she reasonably can from Louis. In other words, she expects nothing.

“Has she tried betting the royal jewels away?”

Violette, it seems, has placated her sister. Trixie is tempted to ask her to kiss her dice.

“No, not just yet,” Katya says. She won’t play, but she’s been standing sentry by her side and Trixie wonders if it’s any fun for her.

“You know you can talk to me,” says Trixie, turning to face her two favourite people. “I may be getting older, but I’ve still got ears and a mouth.”

“Far be it for me to interrupt your playing,” Violette says, in that velvety way of hers.

Violette can get away with saying _anything_ to her. She loves and curses her.

Trixie turns to Katya, “Are you sure you don’t wish to play, Madame?”

Katya shakes her head, a firm _no_.

“I’d lose us the palace.”

“Well, that would be a good riddance as far as I’m concerned,” Trixie finds herself saying.

She giggles, glancing at Violette in the hopes that she’d be proud of her cheek. Violette, damn her, stares blankly back.

“Do you want a go?”

Violette approaches her in response, holding a hand out for the dice. Trixie gives them a kiss and puts them in her palm.

“Careful,” murmurs Violette, leaning in close. If she touches her, Trixie thinks her fingers would burn right up.

Lightheaded, Trixie steps back and looks around for a place to sit. She settles down where she can still see Violette, and where Violette can find her if she turns her head just a little.

When Trixie was young, she planted violets in her little garden. All the children in her family had their own plot. She might be confused, but she thinks there were violets in hers…

She thinks she’s nodding off. She doesn’t know how her thoughts turned to gardening. While she’s thinking on it, though, she decides that she’d like a little bit of land for her children when she has them. _If_ she has them.

She makes a sign, and then there’s wine in her hand. The glass shatters on the ground when she’s done—she set it down wrong.

Someone’s lifting her hair up a little, leaning over her to reach it. She sits up groggily. She can’t remember if she fell asleep. She thinks she hears the sound of a candle being blown out.

“Trixie,” someone whispers. “Are you feeling alright?”

Katya has the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen.

Trixie nods. She feels like a baby, and Katya is already so close that she puts her arms out, as if to be picked up. Somehow, Katya has the strength to help her to her feet.

“I think it’s time to get her to bed,” Katya says, but not to her. Trixie leans forward, to rest on the weight of her.

Katya props her up all the way back to her rooms. Two pairs of hands help her get comfortable enough to sleep. She’s used to being a doll, to being dressed and undressed, so it’s not hard for her to be helpful. Someone once told her that there are dolls that looked like her, with little replicas of her gowns, sent all across Europe so that everyone can see how she dresses. 

Katya has little hands, so Trixie knows she’s grabbed one of hers when she’s tucked into bed.

“Katya,” she moans. “I want to tell you something. Stay a little while.”

Katya shifts so that she’s kneeling by Trixie’s bedside. She runs a finger along her hairline. Trixie’s head is still pounding from the weight of her hair, even after much of it has been let loose.

“I could make you feel good, Katya,” Trixie continues. “If you wanted it. Ask Marie Violette. I shouldn’t know how, but I do.”

Katya lets out a tiny gasp.

Trixie’s not sure she really heard her, so she repeats what she thinks is most important.

“I’m very good,” she insists. “You don’t need to go to Paris.”

Trixie opens her eyes as much as she can. She’s slumped on her side, weighed down by downy blankets.

Katya kisses her temple, above her right eyebrow.

“Your Majesty always makes me feel good when you’re near me.”

Trixie yawns. She doesn’t press the issue.

Katya rises to her feet, and lays a hand over her rapidly beating heart as she heads outside to meet Violette.

***

 _Trixie can’t go on like this_.

Katya hasn’t been at ease since the Queen’s birthday party. It’s become difficult to even look at Violette, too. Her head wanders down many different roads when she’s with the two of them, all the while picking up clues she never thought she’d find.

She never noticed how Trixie’s eyes are always fixed on Violette at balls, how casually Violette will lay a hand over Trixie’s to make her listen.

She remembers, now, standing on the sidelines with Trixie, watching Violette dance.

“It’s special, the way she carries herself,” Trixie sighed, not taking her eyes off her sister-in-law for a second.

Katya had thought it was just lingering jealousy. Seeing them interact convinced her that they were indeed friends, but if sisters can look upon each other with envy, it’s possible for it to exist between friends. Trixie has always been a little self-conscious about her clumsiness. Now, she looks back on it with a new set of eyes.

Katya is not jealous. She’s _concerned_. Her guiding principle is, and has always been, that it is important for one to live well with one’s family. She has no right to an opinion on the matter, but her own father could have benefited from knowing this. While she’s no more entitled to an opinion on how the Comtesse relates to the Queen, she still worries about what it could bring about if they are not careful.

If it were only a ridiculous rumour, they may weather it… but Katya now knows that it’s not as ridiculous as it should be.

She wants to bring it up. But she can’t dream of talking to Trixie herself about it, and she’s not sure how to dress the subject up so that it doesn’t ruin the alliance she has forged with Violette.

When Katya is alone with her, and she still finds herself that way from time to time, she can only think of raising her concerns with Violette in the simplest terms: “You are playing with fire.”

Violette is playing with Nanon while Katya lets the words spill out, moving her hand from side to side for the cat to follow. She looks up.

“Did you say something?”

Katya shakes her head, “No. I was only building castles.”

A sinner like her cannot judge others for their trespasses, but for God’s sake, Trixie is the Queen of France. Her name is dragged through the mud every day at court, and she has been slipping so far that even the King has turned up in Katya’s rooms wondering if his wife is alright. Katya has no idea what to do with him, either. She feels so helpless, it makes her remember why she’d wanted to keep her distance in the past.

Trixie needs a child. In order to have one, she needs Louis. And Louis appears to have no intention of helping her. It’s a mess, has been for years now.

Katya spends more time than she ever has trying to find a solution to a problem she’s certain she hasn’t got the power to solve. Louis is the only one who can really make a difference, and she knows he’s almost as delicate as Trixie is. She still can’t figure out what makes him so afraid. If she knows how to please a girl, and if Violette can figure it out, how is it that—

 _Oh_.

They’ve all been so foolish. The King has no history with women outside of his family. He has always been timid to a fault.

Perhaps, with determination, another man would navigate a husband’s duty on his wedding night tolerably well, without prior instruction. Louis, though… Louis has always been the nervous type.

Katya takes it upon herself to find a woman who might provide the King with some much-needed instruction. From there on, all she can do is pray.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on tumblr: [@fannyatrollop](http://fannyatrollop.tumblr.com/)


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